Charles Todd - A False Mirror

He’d been intent on changing the subject but was taken aback by the vehemence of Bennett’s retort. “Mallory ran me down, that’s what happened. When I went to arrest him. Flung me off the damned motorcar, directly into its path. If I hadn’t been quicker, I daresay he’d have been glad to see me dead under his wheels.”

The note had said something about Mallory assaulting a police officer, but Rutledge had assumed there had been a brief exchange of blows or a shoving match.

Such violence put an entirely different complexion on the coming confrontation. And it seemed to underline Mallory’s guilt in attacking Hamilton.

He’d hoped to wait for daylight, for his own sake as well as to give Mallory time to rethink his position. After all, there had been no set timetable for his arrival, and darkness often put fears and decisions into uncomfortable perspective. Men brooded in the night, and were grateful for sanity in the morning.

“Are you up to answering questions?” he asked Bennett now. “I’ll need a better picture of events than was available at the Yard. For one thing, has anything changed in Mallory’s situation? Are the women still safe? Has he tried to harm either of them?”

They walked back to Bennett’s office. Bennett sank into his chair like a man in pain, easing the injured foot out of the way of his single crutch. Rutledge took the only other chair.

It was a tiny room, hardly wide enough for the desk, the chairs, and the two men. From the scatter of papers across the desktop, Rutledge could see that his counterpart was not a tidy man, more impetuous than organized, and likely to have a temperament to match.

Bennett shuffled irritably at the papers, turning some, shoving others aside, creating a small avalanche that he caught just before it went over the edge. The near mishap did nothing for his mood.

Hamish said, “He’ll no’ help you, if he isna’ forced to.”

“A facade,” Rutledge answered silently. “That’s all I’m expected to be. But we’ll see about that.”

Bennett was saying, “There’s not much to tell. Matthew Hamilton-you probably know the name, coming as you do from London-was walking on the strand early this morning in a heavy sea mist. Apparently it’s something he does to help him think. That’s what one of the other vestry members told me. Miss Trining, that was. At any rate, someone came up behind him, footsteps no doubt muffled by the incoming tide, and struck him down. While he was still dazed, his attacker hit him repeatedly with something heavy, a stick, a cane, a bit of flotsam-who knows? By the time someone saw him lying there and summoned help, Hamilton’s feet were awash, and all tracks had vanished. If no one had seen him in time, he might well have drowned in another quarter hour.”

Matthew Hamilton…Rutledge cudgeled his tired wits. His sister had spoken of the man from time to time. Or one of her friends had done. Rutledge had paid scant attention, but he possessed a good memory and he managed to dredge up a few details. Hamilton moved in good circles, but he wasn’t particularly enchanted with London and soon after his marriage he’d disappeared from the social scene. That accounted for the move to Hampton Regis. But why had he chosen to close up his flat as well? London gossips had looked for an answer to that and failed to find it.

The information Bowles had given Rutledge was lean to the point of skeletal: that Hamilton had been at the Peace Conference in Paris, coming unbidden from his station on Malta, and was sent back there posthaste.

Wasn’t it this same Hamilton who had been against stiff reparations from Germany? French vengeance he’d called it. And hadn’t he railed against the American president Wilson’s belief in self-determination, publicly branding it foolishness in the extreme? Wilson had been tired, ill, his idealistic pronouncements according to Hamilton failing to take into account the realities of world politics and setting the stage for grave consequences down the road. The British and French delegations had been intent on ignoring the American president, palming him off with his precious League of Nations. Hamilton had tried repeatedly to convince them all that they were sowing the seeds of disaster which another generation would reap in blood. It hadn’t been a popular stance.

The British had all but disowned him, as they had disowned Lawrence and others with a clearer vision. Rutledge had been in hospital during most of the Peace Conference, his knowledge of it secondhand. But the displeasure of the Foreign Office hadn’t sent a man of Hamilton’s stature to a backwater like Hampton Regis. Small wonder the gossips had been busy.

Given Hamilton’s history, what scandal or past indiscretion might have caught up with him here? Stephen Mallory had had no role in Hamilton’s diplomatic career. Yet that had covered at least twenty years of Hamilton’s life.

Bennett was still speaking, his voice sour. “And how is it you’re acquainted with this man Mallory? Does he have friends in high places?”

“Hardly high places. I expect the Yard was more concerned about the Hamiltons and their maid than any connection I might have with your suspect.”

“Then you won’t mind telling me how it was you came to know him.”

“In the war,” Rutledge answered him, and changed the subject, though he knew Bennett wasn’t satisfied. “Any improvement in Hamilton’s condition?”

“Not according to the doctor.” Bennett grimaced as he shifted his foot again. “He’s been close to consciousness a time or two, but he never quite wakes up. That doesn’t bode well for his ability to recall who attacked him.”

“Yes, I see that. What happened next?”

“I sent my constable, Jordan, to the Hamilton house to fetch Mrs. Hamilton to him, and I went to Mallory’s cottage myself. It lies inland, a few miles up the Hampton River. My intent was to question him about where he’d been that morning, but he lost his head and went directly to find Mrs. Hamilton. She was at Dr. Granville’s surgery. He waited until she came home, and took both Mrs. Hamilton and her maid hostage. When we went to try and talk him into surrendering, he threatened to kill both women if we didn’t summon you directly.”

“Since then, you haven’t tried to-er-persuade him to surrender?”

“I had myself driven up to the house shortly before nightfall, and called to Mrs. Hamilton. Mallory answered for her and reminded me that their safety depended on you coming down from London.” He considered Rutledge, his eyes hostile. “I still can’t see why he should have sent for you by name. There must be more to it.” His posture was insistent, as if he were determined to get to the bottom of the connection.

“I’ve told you. We served together in France, and I expect I’m the only policeman he knows.”

Bennett took out his watch. “I’ve posted two men near the house, out of sight but where they could hear the women scream or a shot fired. It’s time to relieve them. I expect you’ll want to come along. You can speak to Mallory yourself.”

They went out to the motorcar, and Bennett beckoned to two constables who had just arrived at the station to accompany him. They nodded to Rutledge and stepped into the rear seat, where Hamish usually sat. The familiar Scots voice rumbled with irritation.

All the while, Bennett was still pressing, eager to wrap up the inquiry. For him, the matter was very simple. Rutledge was here, therefore Mallory ought to surrender himself to the police. It needn’t drag on any longer.

Rutledge didn’t interrupt, understanding the pent-up frustration that drove the man. But the harangue also served to fix his own actions. Bennett was using the listening constables behind him to make certain that the man from London couldn’t avoid doing his duty.